


Even As I Wander

by KittyAugust (KittyAug)



Series: Of Hunters and Hellblazers [5]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer, Supernatural
Genre: Chastantine Coloured Glasses Available, F/F, Fluff, Geeky References, Ghosts, M/M, Magic, More Fluff, Mucous Membrane, Pre-Newcastle, Shower Sex, Singing, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyAug/pseuds/KittyAugust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Careful, Winchester. The third time’s the <i>charm</i>.”</p><hr/><p>The one with: Ghosts, some feels, lots of fluff, soapy smut, bad singing, magic, demonic snogging, and a stag night... Mostly in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changing Times (Nazareth)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the REO Speedwagon song _Can't Fight This Feeling_. Which astute SPN fans will recognize from 2.05 Simon Said (where Jo plays it in the bar and Dean ends up singing it later in the car). This will be relevant later.
> 
> Hugs and bunnies to wtinp for the beta. I'm so demanding and they're so accommodating!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating is for later chapters. This one is pretty tame.

“Sure, good thinking Captain America. Shoot the sodding ghost! Lot of bloody good _that’ll_ do.” Constantine snarks while Dean slams the door shut behind them.

“I pack them with rock salt, dumbass. They’re actually pretty damn effective.”

“Huh,” John’s eyebrows fly up with his usual exaggeration. “Okay, that’s nifty. Lemme see?”

Dean rolls his eyes but hands over the shotgun. He’s surprised when Constantine knows how to handle it, checks the ammo, examines the seal and packing on the salt shell then replaces it with ease. Snaps the gun closed one handed but hands it back to Dean like it’s dirty. The dude is such a freaking paradox.

“Sodium chloride,” the Hellblazer says with an oddly nostalgic smile while he rummages around for something in the ridiculous bag he lugs around. Adjusts his accent slightly to mimic the BBC style. “Disrupting the electrical conductivity prevents the control of localised disruption of osmotic pressures.”

“Salt _doesn’t_ kill it,” Dean says. And yes, he recognizes the Doctor Who quote. He was practically raised by late night sci-fi reruns and it's about _salt_ killing ghosts. And _yes_ he also knows that isn’t actually the line. But he feels like a kid being quizzed on… something. He’s not even sure what the test is but he has an odd urge not to fail it.

Constantine grins over at him for a moment like Dean is a puppy that just did a trick he wasn’t expecting then turns back to the bag. Dean assumes he passed muster. Dean isn’t sure how he feels about that at all. He shifts nervously and double checks the reload on the gun. It’s fine.

“Anyway, Captain America doesn’t use guns,” Dean says, somewhat sulkily.

“A’aht?” Constantine says around the edge of the salt tin lid that he is trying to remove with his teeth for some creepy British reason.

“Captain America has the _shield_. He doesn’t use guns. It’s _Britain_ that has the sword.”

Constantine makes a face. “Was always more of a DC lad me’self.”

“Of course you were,” Dean sighs. “You’re freaking Batman, huh?”

“That make you Robin?” Constantine winks at him. Manages to be both suggestive and insulting in one move.

“Ha, fucking, ha,” Dean says. Shoulders his gun and snatches the salt off the Hellblazer to finish off salting the doorway closed. “What are you even doing here anyway?”

“Getting rid of a ghost?” Constantine kicks the second industrial size tin of salt that has appeared at his feet as an explanation. He crouches down to start writing weird ass symbols with what looks like some kind of big crayon.

“I meant in America.”

“Oh, that. Yeah... Me mate’s getting married.” John shrugs it off like it doesn’t matter but there’s something in his voice. “Where’s your old man, anyhow?”

Dean allows the blatant subject change. It’s not like he actually knows the guy well enough to push it anyway.

“He’s laid up – three broken ribs and a sprained ankle. _This_ thing threw him down the stairs last week.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t say I blame her for bein’ a bit against father figures. Can you?”

Dean makes a noncommittal sound and watches the Hellblazer scribble on the floor some more. Dean and his dad were pretty sure the ghost is a girl who disappeared 20 years ago and that she lived in this house but they don’t know much more than that. Apparently Constantine knows a bit more. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. Just when Dean thinks he has a read on the guy things change. Dean realizes he’s chewing on his lip and watching the intensity on Constantine’s face with more interest that he should.

Constantine pulls himself up into a crouch, stupid trench coat trailing in the dust, and examines his handy work. He glares at some of the symbols but must decide it’s good enough when he beckon’s Dean over with a brash, “C’mere luv.”

And because Dean’s an idiot he goes directly where he’s told. Despite himself he finds he’s looking at the magic circle with open curiosity.

“That just says ‘stay the fuck out’ and ‘no magic past this point,’ with some curly bits on the letters,” Dean says. Not sure if he’s impressed or disappointed by the simplicity of it.

“Yeah, well. I don’t think viciously beaten American teenagers speak ancient Aramaic, d’you?”

Dean can’t help it. His breath catches when Constantine stands up putting their faces scant inches apart. And of frickin’ course the Hellblazer hears it and just smirks at him. They’re so close that Dean can almost taste that distinctive smoke and spice scent. Constantine’s eyes flick to Dean’s lips and he wonders if maybe he isn’t the only one affected by the proximity. For a long moment he thinks Constantine is going to try something and he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to push him off… But then the Hellblazer is just sidestepping him, leaving Dean cold inside the little circle. Dean can’t help being a bit disappointed even if he had resolved to reject the dude.

“Any road, I writ it in Latin too if that makes you feel better.” Constantine points to the outer ring of the circle that Dean hadn’t even been paying attention to.

“Shouldn’t that be in the accusative case?” Dean says. Only a little smug.

“Still doubt the dead bird’ll care, mate.” The exorcist shrugs, doesn’t even seem surprised at Dean’s grasp of Latin. Which kind of makes the reveal a bit of a waste really. Now he’s lighting a cigarette – because apparently when you’re the Hellblazer hiding from an angry ghost calls for nicotine and casual, almost flirtatious conversation. Great.

“Now,” John continues, pointing the cigarette at Dean. “You stay put and I’ll have this all sorted in a tick.”

“What, no!” Dean glares. “I’m not gonna hide behind the salt line like some goddamn civvy. What the fuck, Constantine?”

Constantine remains unintimidated. “You know where the bones are, mate?”

“Well… no,” Dean admits.

“Right. And you know why she’s angry?”

“It’s a ghost. They’re always angry.”

“I bloody wish,” Constantine mutters but that seems to be to himself. “She’s in the house. You must have noticed the pattern with the dead blighters? All of ‘em were parents. And not very good ones at that. I’m guessing the father killed her and covered it up. Yard’s too exposed and she ain’t got the range for the woods. So she’s here. Somewhere. Now, unless you’ve learned to scry for bones in the last twelve months you stay in the circle and I’ll find her. Yeah? I’ll let you play with the sledgehammer though, if you’re good.” And with that last line he winks and turns his back on Dean.

He’s always friggin’ winking. It’s up there as one of the most annoying things he does. Along with smoking, laughing, talking, and breathing. Dean huffs out a small sigh.

“Fine,” he agrees grudgingly. “But don’t go far. What would people say if they learned I let the Hellblazer get himself killed on a ghost hunt.”

Constantine laughs at that. Then takes a few steps into the middle of the room. Rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. Which Dean refuses to think about too much. Damn it.

He starts scribbling things on the fireplace and muttering to himself. Dean doesn’t recognise the language, let alone the words, but he recognises the greasy feeling in the air. A smell like copper.  And a heaviness in the room; a stretched feeling across his skin like dry heat - without the heat. Magic. Dean shivers and this time it isn’t just because of Constantine.

After a long minute of nothing the magic snaps. The tension in the room dissolves and leaves Dean slightly dizzy.

“Bugger,” Constantine says.

“Not in the house?” Dean guesses.

“No,” Constantine says and kicks the hearth stone. “How d’you feel about a little digging?”

o)oOo(o

“You have _got_ to be kidding me?”

“Nope,” Constantine says. Far too smug for a dude who was totally wrong half an hour ago. Dean can’t decide if he wants to kiss him or punch him but he _knows_ he wants to remove that expression. John’s even managed to get a smudge of dirt on his face despite being allergic to any real physical labor. Luckily the pit wasn’t as deep as a grave normally is.

“God, I hate my life,” Dean says as he swaps shovel for gun and jumps down onto the top of the septic tank. “You are _so_ making this up to me,” Dean adds as he starts to unscrew the tank access cover.

“Sure I can think of somethin’ luv.” Constantine leers down at him. Dean sighs but averts his face quickly to hide a spreading grin. Damn it, Dean. Don’t give in that easy. He focuses on the fact they’re salting and burning 20 year old sewage instead. That isn’t going to get anyone off. At least he really hopes not. He’s just grateful the house has been plumbed into the main pipes years ago so at least the tank is out of use and there isn’t anything _recent_ down there. Yuck.

Of course the ghost shows up just as Dean is getting the tank lid off. She attacks John who basically tells her to “piss off, luv.” But still promptly gets shoved into the hole on top of Dean. Of freaking course!

Dean’s instincts kick in. He scrambles for his shotgun with one arm, and wraps the other around the Hellblazer and rolls them both so he’s half shielding the other guy. Then he shoots the ghost as it descends on them. It dissipates like he thought it would, thankfully.

“Nifty,” Constantine mumbles eyeing the space the ghost previously occupied. He is repeating his earlier comment but actually sounds like he means it this time. Dean glances down at him. Knows they’re both breathing harder than the exertion really required. Pretends it’s just the adrenalin. Can’t help the fact he’s looking back a little too intensely though. They’re too close not to.

Dean is actually grateful for the smell and the fact he’s now covered in mud and maybe worse. At least it’s a distraction from the hot human body pressed against him.

“Told ja,” Dean says. Smooth, Dean. Really freaking smooth. Okay, maybe he’s a bit distracted despite the muck. Crap.

“Right, well,” Constantine says interrupting Dean’s slightly hazy attention. “As much as I enjoy being pressed into the dirt by 12 stone of confused muscle – p’raps not this particular dirt?”

“Shit,” Dean rolls off him and shuffles back.

“Probably,” Constantine laughs and gets up. Grabs a tin of salt and tosses it to Dean. “You salt, I’ll burn.”

“Um, how are we even going to burn this stuff? It’s still half liquid?” Dean tries not to shudder.

Constantine’s chuckle turns a bit bitter at that. “They don’t call me the _Hellblazer_ for nuthin’ mate.” It’s cryptic but Dean knows enough of the rumours that it makes his stomach twist. And he’s not entirely sure it’s apprehension either.

Dean basically just pours the salt into the sludge because there is no way in hell he’s actually getting inside that thing and it’s the best he can do from outside. Constantine gets out of the hole and takes off his coat but otherwise Dean ignores him and focuses on the salt. Or, he tries to.

“ _Out_ you come, Winchester,” Constantine smirks down at him and reaches down as though he’s actually going to help Dean out of the hole. Dean ignores his proffered hand and clambers out of the pit on his own. Even if it does look stupid and get him covered in even more dirt. He heard that double entendre, damn it, and he’s not impressed. Unfortunately this just amuses the damn Hellblazer _even_ more. Dean waits for the taunt but it doesn’t come. “Everything clear?” Constantine asks instead.

Dean nods and takes a deep breath. John’s rolled up his sleeves and balances the ever present cigarette between his lips. Smirks around it and winks at Dean yet again. Then he does the shoulder roll thing again. Dean wonders idly if he even knows he does that. Without the coat Dean can see the way it makes the dude’s back move and arms strain. God damn it, Dean is so screwed.

Constantine, ever dramatic, throws his arms out and flicks his wrists. Dean expects that creepy magic feeling from before but it doesn’t come. Instead there’s just fire. When John snaps his wrists out, each hand lights. And Dean just _knows_ what kind of fire. He doesn’t know how he knows. Maybe it’s the way it burns a little too bright for this world. The yellow edges almost gold and the core of it ice blue. Maybe it’s the freaky smell, greasy, sulfur and tar, burnt caramel and… ice? Maybe the real clue is the jolt of primal fear in his soul. Whatever it is he knows _that’s_ hellfire - as in fire from Hell, capital H and all. It’s the most powerful magic he’s ever seen and probably ever will. It’s terrifying. And captivating. And, yeah okay, really freaking hot. And _no_ , damn him, he doesn’t mean that literally. So, _so_ screwed.

The ghost chooses that moment to flicker back into existence on the other side of her sewage-y grave. Dean aims the gun at her again. But it looks like even ghosts are scared of hellfire because she stays back and just sort of glares at John mournfully. If that’s even possible.

“Night, night luv.” Constantine reaches forward so one flaming hand hovers above the tank opening. Then he just snaps his fingers and the ball of flame drops, slower than it should but too fast for the ghost to react. If she even would. Dean’s not sure. She seems just as mesmerised by the little light show as he is.

“He…” the ghost starts to speak. “He… Daddy?” It’s the first time Dean’s heard this one say anything. It’s a strained, rough, broken voice. And she looks up from watching the fire that’s about to consume her and meets Constantine’s eyes.

“I know luv,” he says with more firm compassion than Dean’s ever heard from him or from anyone for a ghost. “He’s long gone. You run along now, there’s a good girl.”

And that’s when her projection finally catches fire. She gasps, flares, and is gone. Just like that. Dean’s got no idea why that feels sad about it. This chick’s been killing people for months. This is a good, easy win. Why does Constantine have to make everything so damn complicated?

The muck’s still burning. And Dean can feel the heat even from three paces back. Constantine is still playing with the ball of fire on his other hand though. Rolling it absentmindedly across the back of his hand to the tip of his fingers and back with slow rolls of his wrist. It is strangely sensual (in that bone deep terrifying kind of way) and reminds Dean of David Bowie in the Labyrinth. And that’s the wrong thing to think about. Not just because it comes uncomfortably close to suggesting he has a _type_. But mostly because it reminds him of Sam. And even though he’s been gone for months it still hurts. Like something’s been ripped out of him. Sammy loved that movie. He wore the VHS out when they were kids. And then insisted Dean get him a replacement. When they were older they argued for days over how, and if, you’d kill a goblin.

“Are goblins real?” Dean asks.

“’Course,” Constantine says distractedly. Still doesn’t look away from the fire in the tank.

“How do you kill them?”

“Cold iron, if’n you can get close enough without bein’ minced. Easier to just banish ‘em though… why?” Constantine finally looks away from the fire to scowl at Dean over his shoulder. Then he glances at the other hand where he’s still playing with a ball of goddamn hellfire and smiles slowly when he gets it. He flicks his wrist again and the fire fades. From both his hand and the now red hot sewage tank. Constantine throws his cigarette butt down into the tank. It sizzles.

“It’s been, what, two weeks since the widow moved out?” John asks. He reaches down and grabs his coat and that stupid doctors’ bag he drags around.

“Yeah, about that. Why?”

“Reckon they still got hot water in there?” Constantine nods towards the house. “’cos I dunno ‘bout you mate, but I could go for a real long shower ‘bout now. And I’m not keen on waitin’ - I think me bruises ‘ev got bruises.”

Dean blushes. He can frickin’ feel it. A hot sudden flush across his neck and cheeks. The last two times he met the Hellblazer had both ended with a lot of soap, skin and water. Constantine looks back at him when he doesn’t respond.

“Don’t worry,” he says. Slinks right up into Dean’s personal space and looks him over in a way that shouldn’t but does make his skin burn even hotter. “I’m not going to try en’ _seduce_ you, ghost hunter.” His voice is a mocking drawl but there’s a slight edge of menace to it too. And for some very fucked up reason it’s _that_ which gets him.

Dean reaches out and grabs Constantine’s wrist before he can really think about what he’s doing. There’s a strange satisfaction when the Hellblazer flinches. John’s eyes snap to the point of contact then back to Dean’s face. And Dean can’t read that expression. Part cool calculation and part hellfire hot. Dean makes a frustrated sound. Half-growl, half-sigh and almost all directed at himself rather than the Hellblazer. He rushes forward, before he can lose his nerve, and pulls the exorcist into a lust deep kiss.

Dean tosses aside the shotgun so he can get a hand on the guy’s jaw. Indulging in the slide of stubble rough skin against his palm and pulling Constantine closer at the same time. It’s not like he’s got much left to lose anyway. Why the fuck not.

It takes John a second to get with the program but when he does he kisses back with the same ferocity that Dean remembers. Maybe even more. Then Constantine makes this noise in the back of his throat. And fuck it, Dean just wants more of that sound. He pushes forward. The exorcist still has one hand full and the other pinned in Dean’s grasp. Hard enough to bruise but neither of them seems to mind. For a moment he lets Dean pull him in close and kiss him hard. Even arches into it. And it’s fucking glorious.

Then just as sudden as it started Constantine twists in his grip. Dean feels the shift. But he’s not fast enough to fight it. John spins them. Ends up behind Dean’s left ear. And he can feel the grip, on his wrist now, and he knows Constantine could really hurt him is he wanted to just by pushing his arm up his back. But instead he drops his grip and speaks low and close enough that Dean can feel the Hellblazer’s breath on his neck. The hand slips to his waist instead of his arm. Firm but not actually restraining. He’s frozen in place anyway.

“Thought you said last time was the _last time_ , mate.”

“Yeah well, now this is.” Dean can feel the flush on the back of his neck. Tries to blame it on Constantine but he knows that’s not all true.

“Right.” Constantine doesn’t sound like he buys it. And even Dean’s pretty sure it’s just bravado anyway. If they keep running into each other like this it seems kind of inevitable. Self-control isn’t really his game. He can feel his own pulse racing and closes his eyes when Constantine speaks against his throat, “Careful, Winchester. Third time’s the _charm_.”

And Dean’s not sure if that’s a threat or a promise. Maybe it’s just a warning. Maybe it’s something more entirely. Whatever it is, Dean knows it shouldn’t make him _smile_ like that.


	2. Pretty Vacant (Sex Pistols)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constandean: Soap, smut, stuff...
> 
> * * *

If John Constantine was a better man he probably wouldn’t be doing this.

Annie tells him that he uses his amorality as an excuse for immorality. He usually thinks that’s rubbish. But right now, with 6 foot of closeted hunter pressed in against him, he’s not quite so sure. What he is sure about is that he'll probably regret this in the morning.

He knows, objectively, that Dean has problems. What is it the Yanks say? ‘Baggage’ – that’s the Winchester lad all over. Like he’s carrying this big old weight around on his back. Sometimes John even imagines a spectral albatross around the lad’s neck. And it pulls him away, down and under with the weight of it. Twists him up into knots of what he should and shouldn’t or could and couldn’t be. And really, John knows he’s not equipped to deal with that. Demons with the horns, and the tentacles and the smoke, sure thing luv. The ones that a man makes for himself or his daddy scars onto him, not so much. Problem is John's always been more at home arguing with gods and angels than himself.

And the worst thing is, John _knows_ he’s just making it all worse. He’s been around the block enough times. He knows this push to pull, fight to fuck dance. And it never ends good. He knows the lad’s confused. Hell, he remembers what that felt like. Almost winces at the ghost of pain across his knuckles. Remembers bloody well punching poor old Gaz for kissing him. Even though now, with 16 years of hindsight to clarify things, he’s almost certain he moved first. He’s still not sure what hurt the chap more in the long run – giving in or trying not to. Or just being around John Constantine too much. That might’a been it too, come to think. And here he is again. Letting himself be dragged along as some kid’s experiment. Or punishment maybe? But for what? What’s changed in the last year?

Maybe it’s safer like this anyhow? Maybe all that inner conflict will keep this one safe. Insulated. If he can’t decide if he even wants this, maybe he won’t get attached. Maybe he won’t end up being yet another ghost in Johnny’s mirror. And maybe John’s just making excuses. Again. That’s one thing he’s _always_ been good at.

Then there’s the fact that the house has still got electric and might have the hot water on. John is a pessimistic fucker for good bloody reason. Good things do not happen to John Constantine. And if it seems like good luck then it is always the forerunner to everything getting a whole shit of a lot worse and going to hell. Sometimes literally going to Hell. There is _always_ some nasty thing hidden in the light. Tonight that thing might just be Dean Winchester.

For a minute there John even thinks he might be the one getting conned for once. The lad plays the transition from cold to hot too bleeding smooth to be real. He’d seemed so certain when he pushed John away last time. The steel in his eyes had been pretty clear. And John may hate rejection (especially if he didn’t orchestrate it) but he understands it. He’d won the round so he’d let go easy as he could. Letting go is always easier than holding on, anyways. He knows the young hunter had been in the right to end it before it could start - even if his reasons might not have been clear. And John knows it’s better to be a crazy memory than a bitter or deadly mistake. Constantine might play it debonair but he knows what he is and what he does to people around him. The kid might burn a few ghosts and hunt the odd werewolf but he’s not ready for John’s world. He might be handy with a spade but he’s too honest. Too open with everything writ large on his face and in his eyes. The fire in his soul is too pure. Too _righteous_. And that there is a stomach twisting thought. Because John knows what happens to righteous men on this godforsaken ball of misshapen clay.

Now all of a sudden he’s back in John’s face. Twists around to kiss and bite and touch. Stumbling over himself to drag them both inside. Trying to get under his skin. And John’s letting him. Because yes he’ll probably regret it in the morning. But that’s what mornings are _for_. And right now he could do with the bloody distraction. Kid dug up a sewage tank for him, least he can do is get him off and play the mighty Hellblazer for a night, right? Yeah, you tell yourself that John. Tell yourself you’re doing it for the lad. If only he was as good at lying to himself as he is to everyone else, eh.

John’s made his point though. He’s dropped his warning. And if anything it just seems to get the lad going even more. He should examine that observation a bit closer but right now there’s a tongue sliding on his. And there’s another man’s full-fledged stiffy pressing into his leg, with his own half way there as well. So goddamn it. And God damn _him_. He’s doing this.

He lets Dean lead him. Pull them both back toward the house hardly breaking the kissing to breathe. Constantine likes to get his own way. But sometimes that includes giving up control when he can. At least on the surface. And as much as he _should_ he doesn’t want to spook the kid. Not when they’re this close. Not when he can taste him. And all he can smell is leather, gun oil, and metal under a faint layer of Old Spice. Yeah, there’s a part of John that could learn to live with that. It’s a hell of a lot better than sulphur and ozone. A lot more human for a start.

As soon as they’re inside, John drops his exorcism kit so he can get both hands on the man in front of him. Gets one hand back in the hunter’s hair and the other under the hem of his shirts. What is the purpose of all the layers? Dean twitches at the first touch of skin on skin but he presses in closer so John’s going to assume it was a good twitch. John rolls his whole body up into the kiss. And that gets a gratifying moaning whimper from the lad which spells the end of any remnant of self-restraint for either of them. Kisses becoming more urgent with each aching moment and hot physical slide.

Eventually John pulls back and gives Winchester a little shove off his neck. As much as the tingling flush under his skin would like to let the lad continue. And Dean bloody well growls. John chuckles at that. From insulted by a bit of light flirtation to demanding skin on skin contact within an hour. This kid might even have John beat for inconsistency. John has got himself pretty grimy though, despite avoiding the whole digging part of the evening, and Winchester is fucking filthy. Literally that is. Although John has a good idea that he could probably convince him to get figurative as well.

Maybe the lad’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve if they stop touching long enough to get undressed. It’s probably fair. But John really does want that shower. And he must be getting old because that is at least up there with shagging in his priorities right now.

“Shower?” John reminds them both. Seems even Constantine can become laconic at times like this.

Dean’s confused glare turns into a smirk that John himself could be proud of – even if he can still see the trepidation at the back of those dark green eyes. John laughs again – at both of them. Dean catches his belt and drags him back in. And John lets him. He doesn’t mind being manhandled now and then. As long as he knows his escape route. This time the kiss is slower, almost nonchalant, more sensual and less desperate. A hot wet promise of something more to come. John just sinks into it like the casual hedonist he is. John may be good at playing with fire but bloody hell if this kid might burn him.

It’s Dean that breaks the kiss this time. Backs off slow, hand still resting on John’s belt for as long as he can. Backs out the door with a silently flirtatious flick of his head. He’s laying it on a bit thick really. Masking some kind of indecision or nerves with an extended grazing gaze across John’s body. But John’s never claimed to be a good man and meant it so he rolls with it. He lets the kid smile at him all sinful sweet. Sucks on his teeth and smirks back. Just a little bit of the predator in his eyes but not enough to push the kid away. He’s a bloody good conman and this here is the oldest con there is.

John is pretty sure, scratch that John is _certain_ that Xala would outright smack him if she knew what he was about to use her special blended purifying soap for. Beggars can’t be choosers though and he has dirt in his sodding eyebrows, for fuck sake. This counts as an emergency. Most things in John’s life do these days. He pulls his eyes off the hunter long enough to dig around in his bag and grab the little wax paper packet then follows Dean further into the house.

Dean doesn’t talk much once they’re getting into it John notices. Loses his voice once the snogging starts. Leads by touch and gesture instead. Oh sure, he mutters and grunts and makes the most amazing sounds when they’re actually at it. John knows he can get the bloke begging in a way that has come back to him more than once. But not beforehand. Which is odd really. The few other macho chaps John’s actually been with have all been talkers. Establishing dominance, covering nerves or some other nonsense. But not the Winchester lad. It’s like he’s scared to ask for what he wants. Scared to admit what he’s actually doing until he’s thrown himself past some imaginary point of no return.

The house had been done up before its last sale. New carpets and a paint job can’t cover up the history in its walls though. They know the electric’s on but don’t bother turning on any lights. They both know enough about this gig to avoid drawing attention to the supposedly empty house. But it adds to the shadows in the shadows and their effect on John’s third sight. He tries to shake it off which makes Dean stop and pull him in again. And _that’s_ dangerous. Dangerous for both of them. The lad shouldn’t have noticed and certainly shouldn’t have cared enough to do anything about it.

The way he pulls John’s shirt loose and grazes his nails up the exorcist’s side is nothing short of seductive. But the way the other hand grabs John’s jaw and draws him in, that’s too close to affectionate. Even the way he pulls their bodies together and presses in is a little bit more than pure sex.

But John’s a silly git so he lets this happen too. Doesn’t even dwell too long on wonderin’ what the hell changed in the last year.

“Afraid of the dark, Hellblazer?” Dean mumbles between too soft kisses up John’s jawline. Bites his ear and tugs in a way that teases at the edge of pain but doesn’t quite deliver.

“Not as much as I should be, luv.” That comes out more breathless than it ought. But it works.

Dean grabs his wrist and drags him into the bathroom which he must have scoped out earlier. Now for the moment of truth. John smirks his way past the young hunter and into the renovated but still basic bathroom. Reaches into the shower and pulls hard on the hot water tap. Holds his hand under the flowing water and keeps his eyes off Dean. The lad’s gone seductive on him before. At the time he’d assumed it was the whole hunter meet Hellblazer thing. He’d come off incongruously both inexperienced but skilled. But he had definitely been keen. Then the second time he’d been so eager, at first desperate _for_ him and then to get rid of him – John had already intended to scarper. But it’s the principle of the matter and he doesn’t like not knowing his footing. Yep, there it is. Hot water. He spares a moment to wonder what demon orchestrated this before he’s pulled back into yet another distractingly sensual kiss.

There are hands everywhere. And John’s suddenly got better things to worry about. He removes his own tie, just pulls it off over his head because it’s loose enough. But it’s Dean that struggles with the buttons on his shirt and actually strips him out of it. Pauses to lose his shirts too. Then they’re kissing again. Skin on skin, finally. Clammy from sweat but hot from arousal. It shouldn’t ramp him up but it does and John’s learned not to question the eccentricities of his sex drive too much. There are circles of Hell and Mayan exorcisms that make more sense. So he just growls into the kiss and starts to work at getting Dean out of his jeans.

The hunter complies easily enough. And John knows it’s soppy but he takes a half step back to admire the view once he gets him naked. The kid _is_ bloody gorgeous. John can tell that Dean knows the effect he has on people but he doubts Dean understands why. Like a lot of blokes being conventionally attractive probably feels like more of a curse than a blessing some days. But right now John’s gonna take it as a blessing all his own. He lets his eyes slide across all that cream soft skin, freckles lighter where they’re hidden by all those sodding layers, almost glowing in the dim light. Lithe with youth but formed hard by his para-military lifestyle. Swamped by steam and lit only by the moon and reflected streetlights through the window he’s almost ethereal. John is tempted to compare the kid to a Greek statue but he’s a lot better endowed. Dean’s cock twitches as John’s eyes scrape across it which makes John smirk. Good to know.

“Up jumped the devil,” John mutters and pulls his eyes slowly back up to Dean’s. Tries to laugh at his own joke but gets his breath stolen in a frantic kiss instead. Which lasts just long enough that he totally forgets what he was even going for with the comment.

“I told you, punk isn’t sexy,” Dean says between suckling hot little kisses along John’s collar bone, “and neither is Nick Cave.” John is surprised that Winchester even remembered that. It was almost two years ago so that’s sort of gratifying. He likes to make an impression. Always been part of his problem really.

“Nick Cave is kinda sexy,” John says by way of an argument. Even though his heart isn’t in it. There’s more ‘en one way to win. Dean just laughs, smiles sly like maybe he agrees but won’t voice it. John can feel the breath of it on his skin. He lets himself get a little lost in the teeth and skin and pressure of it all. Lets the kid kiss him breathless and strip him off. Lets himself stop thinking and start feeling. Lets himself get pushed back into the water. Lets go of angels, and demons, and the world.

The water scalds though and he yelps in surprise. It isn’t actually that bad. More shock than anything. John’s always been partial to certain kinds of pain on his pleasures’ edge and heat is one of them. He fumbles back through the steam to add some cold to the shower anyway and drags the hunter in after him.

The shower feels good in and of itself. He wasn’t quite joking about the bruises on bruises thing. The heat brings the blood to the surface of his skin and washes off some of that sticky feeling over him that isn’t all physical. Then the Winchester lad is kissing him again and they’re wet skin on wet skin, and he’s being pressed into cold tile but doesn’t really mind it. An aching hot distraction of friction and flesh. The tug and tension of wet skin as the oil and sweat washes away. It catches every now and then, smooth and rough at once.

“Pass the soap mate,” John asks. “Back pocket of me trousers.”

“You can say pants like a normal person, you know,” Dean responds and doesn’t make a move for the soap either. Just starts biting along John’s shoulder in a fascinating torture of not quite hard enough.

“Pants is… never mind. Gimmie the soap.” John runs a hand through the dirt settled in the hunter’s hair. “You’re mucky.” Oh _bugger_. Even John can hear the light affection in his voice. And he knows it’s daft but there you have it.

Dean pulls away now and reaches for the small packet of spice soap as directed. John admires the kid’s arse as he bends over. He’s not sure human beings are meant to be quite so flawlessly formed. It’s too close to proof of the almighty wanker. Too close to planned. Too far from ineffable. Can’t run about getting off on all that ‘faith’ if you’re honest about your existence now can you. But John supposes he’ll allow the exception in this case. Has a tiny moment of cold consideration. Angelic isn’t a word John throws around lightly. But then the lad stretches forward and John’s fully distracted again, thankfully.

For a moment he’s even tempted to push this further. It can be done. He knows that damn well. But soap and latex don’t mix. And when it comes right down to it he has more idea about where this kid has been than he probably wants to. Yeah, John is self-destructive but he isn’t _that_ self-destructive. At least not tonight.

“It’s got flowers in it,” Dean says and holds the soap out to John as though it offends him. John laughs. Because it’s sort of adorable and pathetic in equal measure. But he takes the purification soap and lathers it in his hands before placing it out of the water spray and sidling back into the lad’s personal space. Gets soap slick hands on water warmed skin. And the hunter’s breath catches which is exactly the response John was looking for. He sort of likes that he can get that kind of reaction from touch or proximity alone. As if his ego needs any more encouragement. But if it did this lad would be just the ticket.

Now this is better. Soap slick, warm water easy and still a little adrenaline harsh. He presses his advantage. Slides his whole body across the young hunter. Indulges in the feeling of hands clawing into his back, the easy bucking reactions of the younger man, and yeah a little bit the control factor. Covers the kid in soap and himself in equal measures. And they’re kissing again. John likes kissing. Not just in those hot and frantic moments like this, although these are bloody brilliant. But in general. Likes the act of connection and sensuality. Likes the magic in it too. To be honest, he particularly likes kissing the Winchester lad. The kid is so fucking responsive. Plaint and indulgent but still a little rough around the edges. And he flies from hedonist to hesitant between breaths. It’s almost mesmerising.

It’s when John finally gets his hands in the kid’s not-quite-long-enough hair that Dean turns of his own accord and grinds back against John. Looks over his shoulder and catches John’s eye. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Hands reaching back and pulling John’s hips toward him. If this was a fight then that would’ve been a declaration of war. John smirks back and digs his fingertips into the lad’s scalp. Which has the desired effect. Dean closes his eyes and pushes into the massage. Even moans in that decadent pitch that causes John’s core to clench and his hips to thrust forward against the lad’s soap slick behind.

Once he’s rinsed the kid’s hair John slides his hands down Dean’s sides, traces aimless patterns into the skin, draws out the anticipation once he reaches the lad’s waist and starts to slowly move one hand down and forward while the other traces those same mindlessly teasing patterns on Dean’s wet skin. He’s surprised when there’s no snapped out ‘get on with it’ but it seems Dean’s not in a hurry for once. Wonders never cease. Although, of all the times to go sumptuously slow the middle of what is technically an illegal break in probably isn’t it. Trust a bloody Winchester to be contrary even in this.

Dean makes that ridiculously erotic sound again when John finally gets a hand on his knob. And John forgets what he was worrying about. Presses in so the lad can feel John’s blood hard cock against him as he drags out more of those addictive little sounds with each slide and flick of his wrist. He’s done smack that had less of an effect on him than those bloody sounds. It feels like mere moments before the kid thrusts back erratically. Too soon. John slows right the hell down. Dean bloody well whimpers but still doesn’t ask for what he wants. So John pushes his luck even further and bites the kid’s shoulder hard enough to mark. Another half-sobbed desperately heated little noise. Even arches into the pain a bit.

He waits until he can feel the tension building under his own skin before he relents and responds to Dean’s every more desperate little thrusts. Speeds up, slide of soap on sensitive skin. And he pushes back hard. Cock sliding between those too damn perfect cheeks. Bites into Dean’s shoulder again, just as hard. And the response is just as good. They’ve found some kind of equilibrium in-between the breath and steam. But it isn’t going to last. John can feel the hot pressure in his balls, drawing up tight and ready. The noises and the slick friction is enough to throw him over the edge. He comes fast and sweet. Spills across the lad’s back. And he can tell Dean likes it. Not just from the whimpered sounds but the way he arches back, pulls John in closer and stretches into a passionate, if awkward, kiss.

John tugs the kid through it. Brings his wandering hand up to Dean’s face and pulls them closer. Less distracted by his own needs now he focuses on making this good for the lad as well. Warm and pleasure sensitive everything feels a little bit euphoric. The kiss is deep and strong at first. And Dean’s reactions are still bloody well working one over on him. He likes watching the macho façade crumble, subsumed by lust and needy grunting, aching, little movements. Watching the man in his arms respond and buck and writhe in time with each stroke. The shuddering breath and the heady skin feel. The kiss goes uneven along with Dean’s breath. And John can almost feel it himself, as the kid’s body goes tense. Fight or flight. And he comes in John’s hand with a wanton cry that almost sounds like, “Hellblazer.”

John’s not sure how he feels about that at all. Thinks he’ll ignore it for now. Kisses the kid through the last shivering shocks of it. Pushes them both back under the last of the water. He thanks whatever uninterested deity that might care to take credit that the water didn’t run out. It is already getting cooler so he knows they don’t have long left. But then Dean’s twisting around in his arms and they’re kissing again. Face to face and chest to chest. They might not have all the time in the world but it’ll have to do.

o)oOo(o

It turns out that they have three seconds. But it isn’t the water that goes cold. It’s the air. Sudden and chill enough that the mirror frosts at the edges and their breath clouds and skin steams.

“Bugger,” John says.

“Shit,” Dean adds at almost the same time.

“Don’t s’pose you brought your Tom Baker gun into the shower?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Which John will take as both a ‘no’ and a good sign that the lad keeps his wits together in a pinch. Can’t be a smart arsed little sod if you’re having an hysterical fit now can you. John turns the shower off slowly. He’s not sure why he’s being so cautious. If the room is cold then it’s noticed them alright. Maybe if it’s just the bird he can reason with her?

“Oh bollocks,” John says when a male ghost about his height starts to appear in the corner of the room. It’s the bloody father and it does not look happy to see them.

John hates doing raw magic. It hurts even when it feels amazing. And it leaves him a lot more drained and a lot more high than ritual magic. Which is always a bad combination.  He sighs, steps out of the shower, and shrugs his shoulders to relax. He’s just about to gather the power around himself when Dean grabs his jeans and throws something which looks suspiciously like a few torn open salt packets at the ghost, which flutters out of existence temporarily. Buying them maybe 5 seconds, not bad.

“Run?” Dean suggests, shoving John’s clothes into his arms and leading the way out the door. John is not going to argue with that idea.

They make it to the kitchen before the ghost gets itself back together. And the kitchen has John’s kit – including salt. Dean tries to circle them in and hop back into his jeans at the same time. John can’t help laughing despite the urgency as he rummages through his bag for… ah ha!

“Hold this,” he says handing Dean the little blue statuette. “And this,” he adds as an afterthought passing a long golden feather out of the bag. Can’t hurt and he might need it if the curse lock doesn’t work.

“What… is this crap?” Dean asks staring at he objects in his hands. Luckily he seems to have decided jeans are enough clothing for ghost fighting. John isn’t going to argue with that idea either.

“Magic. One was a prezzie from me 21st and the other’s from a junk shop in Leeds.” John gets dressed in a hurry but still somewhat more sedately than Dean did. The ghost isn’t getting through the salt yet and John’s holding it back with enough willpower that it won’t be able to get a wind up or any other nasty little tricks that this type of spirit can get up to. His tie is missing. Bugger. Oh well, trousers on, and shirt… mostly on. It’ll do. He won’t freeze to death at least. That _would_ be an ignominious way to go out. Ironic though.

Dean is watching the ghost circle them. Looks like he’s half thinking about brandishing the feather at it which would be amusing but useless. Archangel or not it’s still just a feather until you do something to it.

“Don’t suppose you know where this bugger is buried do you mate?” John asks.

“No, we never got that far. We knew it was a girl…”

“Ah well. Option one it is then. Give us the statue thing, luv. One freshly bound and cursed object coming up.”

Dean does as he’s told without taking his eyes of the ghost. John Winchester might be a prat of the first order but he’s trained that boy well.

John holds the little ceramic man-shaped thing in the palm of his left hand and flourishes his right above it. The flourish isn’t really necessary but a little bit of a show always helps him focus. He digs down into himself and taps softly at the reserve of power in his heart then puts his will behind it. He layers lines of green… yes green... energy into the statuette. Lines like a net. Lays the work for the trap. Visualises it in his mind’s eye until he can see the glow of it with his third. Once he’s started the weave, he also starts the chant. His Gaelic isn’t great but it’s good enough that he understands the intent behind the words. That’s what matters with this bollocks anyway.

He doesn’t notice that Dean’s attention had shifted to him until he’s almost finished and the statue is glowing so bright that some leaks through to the visible spectrum. The lad’s jaw has dropped. So John winks at him. Dean’s innocence of magic would be endearing if it wasn’t mind-bogglingly dangerous. Doesn’t know if he should take that up with the eldest Winchester or not. Probably not his place ye… _at all_ or ever.

“Right we are,” John says as the spell reaches its peak. “Stay put.” And with that he takes a small jump out of the circle. Landing on the far side of the ghost.

“What the…” Dean’s voice makes its way through the adrenaline fog but not far enough to actually distract him. This is John’s element. Practically his _raison d'etre_. Cheap tricks, dodgy tactics, and winning one over on whatever cold, slimy evil git happens to get between him and his next fried slice. There’s days he almost enjoys it. Well, the winning anyway. And it helps that he’s angry at the dead wanker.

The spirit rushes him, just as expected. And as it does he holds out his hand, statue first, and slams the spell shut with a few more muttered syllables of Gaelic and an added John Constantine bonus of, “Bugger you, mate.” The spectre is sucked into the statuette in a flash of green and silver light. The glow slowly fades and the temperature and the static in the air slowly balances back to normal. Along with John’s heart rate and breathing.

“Or me?” Dean says. And it takes John a moment to remember what he said and how that could possibly relate. But when he does, he toys with his lower lip, narrows his eyes and gives Dean an appraising look.

He’s blushing a bit, which John wouldn’t have been able to see a few years ago. Before the second transfusion. Thanks Nergal, you nasty sodding cunt. Might not have noticed even an hour ago but now there’s magic as well as demon pumping through his blood. But despite the blush Dean’s also returning John’s gaze. Looks him up and down in that obvious and slightly hungry kind of way. Some of it’s a show, John can tell. He puts on this confident, seductive persona, stands with his head cocked but shoulders back. Neck bared, almost submissive but still with his strength on display. John suspects the lad treats everything like a con. Doesn’t even know how to flirt without treating it like he’s running a job. It’s like a bleeding mirror. And it’s that which finally makes John pause and consider what he’s doing and saying here. But the kid’s eyes don’t lie. As such he’ll never have John’s talent for lying. Lucky sod.

“Yeah,” John says after a few breaths of silence. “A’right. Help me find me tie first.”

o)oOo(o

Dean’s shirt is in the hallway. The gun is in the bleeding _garden_ of all places. John’s coat is literally in the kitchen sink. Dean’s pants, sorry ‘underwear’, are in the _bathroom_ sink. The tie is on the bathroom floor and ends up being the easiest thing to find. Oh, and Winchester has lost his wallet. Which also turns out to be in the bathroom after a slightly more thorough search.

Dean flicks through it to make sure everything is in place. He seems happy enough and John has located his belt which is nice. Then Dean bites his lip, obviously considering something. He manages to make the decision, whatever it was, and passes something to John.

It’s a photograph.

“That’s Sammy,” Dean says pointing to the teenager in the picture.

John has to remind himself to fucking well breathe. Don’t. Give. Anything. Away.

The kid is younger. A lot younger than how John’s seen him before. But old enough to be recognisable. The eyes don’t burn quite as bright but the resemblance is clear as day.

It’s not the only face the archangel wears in John’s dreams. He likes to be John or John’s dad or, worst of all, his sodding sister because it used to throw John off so much. Most of the time it is some handsome blond bloke that John is pretty sure is one of his ancestors. But now and then he wore _that_ face. John has each and every one scarred into his memories. And that is one of old Luci’s favourites. Which means _both_ lads are potential vessels for Satan his bloody self. Sod it all. Narrative symmetry, eh? Fuck.

“Oi,” John says, looking at his belt as he slips it back into place instead of Dean. “You want to come?”

“I just did. So did you, remember?”

“Yeah yeah. I meant New York? It's where the wedding is.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not? Bride’s got a right stick up her arse but if I know Chas, and I do obviously, the beer will be bloody good.”

He’s not sure why he’s doing this really. What's the plan here. What happened to no fewer than five moves ahead, Johnny? Yes he wants to keep an eye on the lad but this is what, three or four more days? He’s not going to save the kid in that amount of time. Maybe he’s just curious? He can smell the recklessness in the kid. Something changed in the last twelve months and he's desperate and a little bit more broken. It calls to the dark little thing inside that makes John push things too far just to find out how far it is.

Oh, and it’ll annoy Renee so there’s that. She was probably expecting him to bring Emma when Chas had rung him up and John had said, ‘yeah yeah I’ll be there and I’ll bring a sodding date.’ Because Em is pretty much the only person he knows in New York that both still likes him and isn’t Chas. Truth be told John had assumed the same thing. Em’s a pretty little thing (even if Renee does like her). And she probably wouldn’t say no when John turned up on her doorstep to invite her to get pissed on Renee’s daddy’s tab.

“My dad…” Dean says. Like he’s actually considering it. As though it’s the only real complication to what is, in all honesty, a bloody stupid idea. John wonders just how tight a leash daddy Winchester keeps on the lad.

“Your old man hates New York more’n I do,” John says, wonders if he’s pushing it too far. “And there’s always some supernatural shite going down in New York. We’ll find a piss easy ghost hunt. Could be a laugh, eh?”

John shrugs and goes back to doing up his tie. Ignores the fact that Dean is staring at him and tries not to think too hard about his own motivations too much either. Or that fact that Em would be a better choice and the path of least resistance on so many levels. That’s never really been the Constantine way though. And he never got the stomach up to ask if Annie was going but if she is it’s always been easier for her to see him with a bloke than another bird anyhow. He’s never understood that but he knows it all the same. Not that it should be a consideration, but there you have it. Constantine the gentleman, who’d have thought it.

“Okay,” Dean says. And despite his reasonable arguments both with the lad and himself John still looks back up in surprise.

“Yeah?” John asks. Manages not to ask more than that. Like what broke between last time and now. What ground this chap down enough in just under twelve months that he thinks popping two states over, to a bloody wedding no less, just to get pissed and maybe (okay definitely) shag John Constantine a few times is a good idea, eh?

“Sure, why not?” Dean smirks back. John can think of quite a few good reasons why not. But he doesn’t voice them. Just nods and kisses the kid instead. Why bloody not indeed, mate.

 


	3. Can't Fight This Feeling (REO Speedwagon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist on [Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/kittyaugust84/playlist/12XQQdhLy8KWKVTv1pEsV9) (because I couldn't find the Creedence track on 8Tracks).

Chas hadn’t really known what to think about John showing up on his doorstep at ten o’clock in the evening, three days before his wedding. If he’s honest with himself, he still isn’t sure.

It wasn’t that Chas didn’t believe John when he said he was coming to the wedding, not exactly. He knew John meant it when he said it, probably. He just didn’t really think it would happen. Chas had actually considered not inviting him for about 25 seconds because he’d realised that would be about the only way to guarantee John would turn up. Then he’d thought about the sulking and decided against that plan. He figured so long as John knew he was welcome he wouldn’t care to come. He wouldn’t have even made the follow up phone call when John failed to RSVP (no surprise there) if Renee hadn’t made him.

John had been surprisingly charming if a bit over the top the few times he had met Renee. But that had all been before Renee and Chas got really serious. It was before Renee could be perceived as a threat. Chas had known from the moment he proposed that this time would be different. Maybe that’s why Chas was so surprised to see him. Maybe a treacherous part of him was hoping John just wouldn’t make it and he could put this clash of worlds off just a little longer.

At the very least, Chas had expected some kind of warning. A call to come collect John from JFK, or some seedy bar in Soho or, something. But no. John had turned up on Chas’ doorstep in a huge black muscle car that purred like a happy gryphon as it idled. Yes, Chas knows exactly what that sounds like, thanks to John, oddly enough. John’s latest groupie was pretty obviously a hunter and not the deer stalking kind. It was the multi colored blood stains as much as the way he held himself that made that clear. Chas had fallen into a moment of mingled hope and fear that this was actually just some weird coincidence and John wanted help with a ghost or a demon or something equally unrelated to Chas’ wedding.

No such luck.

John has immediately set about getting in Renee’s bad books by dragging Chas out of the house for a ‘surprise’ (read: impromptu) ‘buck’s night, mate’ (read: excuse to get drunk).

“We used to cover this,” John says idly as the hunter kid gets back and hands him another beer. They’re at a tall table near the back of the bar and Chas has been observing John and Dean with amusement most of the night while trying not to think too hard about why John had brought him at all.

“What?” Dean asks, confused.

“The _band_ , mate. That lot up there,” John waves towards where Gary Lester and Ritchie Simpson are at the bar then to Anne-Marie by the jukebox. He doesn’t include Chas in the gesture but that’s par for the course. “We used to cover this song. _Heard it on the Grapevine._ Wasn’t Creedence originally, you know?”

“Yeah, Marvin Gaye,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I _know_ that.”

“Ha! No.” John does enjoy knowing things, Chas smiles indulgently.

“Smokey Robinson an’ the Miracles.” John continues. “Also old school Motown, but better if’n you’ll believe it. Wasn’t as popular though.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. Chewing on his lip in an exaggerated fashion. Chas doesn’t miss the way the kid’s eyes track the movement. “Claudette Robinson is _not_ a woman you want to cross. Let’s just put it that way, eh?”

“Whatever. I like this version.” The kid bristles a bit.

“You ain’t heard _me_ sing it yet, love.”

“God, you’re drunk. I should cut you off or I’m not going to-” Dean cuts himself short must think better of what he was going to say. Still smiles through it though. Takes a drink to cover a blush. Definitely something going on there. “Anyway, punks don’t sing. They just scream.”

“That’s about right for this one,” Chas interjects. They both startle at his voice like they’d forgotten he was even there. He smiles, he hasn’t seen John this distracted in a while and it’s got a nice familiarity to it.

Constantine stands up and walks around the table until he’s right in Dean’s face. Chas suspects he’s going to sing but he must think better of it. Or he just hasn’t had enough to drink yet - also possible.

“Play with me?” John says. Looks the kid up and down in a way that just drips suggestion.

“What?” Dean startles.

“Snooker… pool, whatever. Come on?” John tilts his head towards the table that has just been vacated.

“Are you trying to hustle me Hellblazer?”

“Think I can, mate?”

“You can try.” Dean stands up, nods to Chas and starts to follow John down to the table. “What’s the bet?”

Chas can see the look in John’s eye and is pretty glad he doesn’t hear the reply.

Chas still isn’t completely sure what to make of the hunter. His first concern, that this was not the sort of man Renee was going to be happy to have in the guest room, had been pretty quickly subsumed by sheer curiosity. This is what John does - for all he talks about being a lone wolf he needs and collects other people. They don’t always last very long but they’re always there, hovering about for John to exposit at. That in itself isn’t unusual. The American hunters talk about John like some kind of legend and he’s been using his reputation to collect muscle for years. There’s something else about this one that Chas can’t quite put his finger on.

The longer he watches them the more convinced he is that the hunter - Dean, he has a name - is a boyfriend as much as driver and grave desecrating accomplice. Chas is even pretty sure that John has bought, or procured anyway, at least one round - which was practically a declaration of undying love from John. It’s not just that either. John has never been subtle in these things but it’s the kid that gives it away. He’s trying too hard not to flirt back. Dean smiles like he doesn’t mean to when John presses up into his space or makes one of those stupid grimacing faces he does when he’s putting on a show.

Chas shakes his head at himself, he needs to learn to stop trying to unravel the mystery of John Constantine - it’s a losing battle that he’d regret winning even if he could. He’s saved from his thoughts by Gary and Ritchie returning from the bar and sitting down on either side of him.

“Shots!” Gary says grinning like sin and completely unnecessarily. The two trays full of the things speak for themselves.

“No,” Chas groans. He has so much to do tomorrow. The hangover after his officially sanctioned stag last weekend had been bad enough - and there hadn’t been any semi-recovered punks at that one. Apart from Anne-Marie, but she was actually sensible most of the time as long as John wasn’t around so that didn’t count. It had been nice. Normal even. Renee’s brother had organised it at his actual bona fide gentlemen's club uptown, and Chas had felt out of place and awkward in a suit surrounded by upscale lawyers. But it had been nice. And the whisky had been amazing. This was nothing like that.

“Shots,” Ritchie agrees, though he does add an almost apologetic shrug.

“Oh, shots!” And that’s Anne-Marie looking a lot less sensible and a lot more punk than she had last weekend. She dances back up from taking over the jukebox. The bar is Ellie’s place so it’s full of witches and other supes - they’ll recognise the power bleeding off Anne-Marie immediately. No one’s going to complain about Annie’s eclectic taste tonight. She reaches past Chas’ shoulder, grabs one glass for herself and forces another into Chas’ hand by swapping it for his beer. “Johnny, Twink?” she calls out over her shoulder. “Shots!”

Dean looks pretty shocked by the epithet but John doesn’t even notice, just takes his cue before turning around to look up at them. The pool table is only a few feet away but down a step and behind a rail making this whole exchange even more obscene.

“Be a pet an’ bring ‘em over,” John calls back. “I gotta beat the lad, first. Trust me, s’important.”

Chas chuckles at that. He’s been watching them dance around each other for a while. He has watched John hustle enough games to see that they’re both trying to make the other win. It is kind of adorable - and as long as no one reads his mind he’s sticking with that description.

Anne-Marie sighs and turns her back on the pool players. Holds up her shot glass instead. “To Chas!”

They clink and down their shots. The liqueur is something sickly sweet and strong and Chas probably doesn’t want to know what it is. Annie slams her glass down last and taps the base with a practiced motion. All four glasses light up for a second as the illusion flows through them - tiny pink and gold fireworks trapped under glass. When she grins like that she looks so much like John it should be scary. But instead, the tension of magic in the air just reminds Chas why he kind of loves these idiots. Reminds him what got him hooked in the first place - it sure as hell wasn’t their shitty punk rock.

“But,” Ritchie frowns like he’s considering a serious conundrum, “if the hunter’s bigger than John, doesn’t that make John the twink?”

Chas takes a his beer back off Anne-Marie and downs half of it. He is not drunk enough for this conversation.

“Don’t know, we’ll just have to ask which one of them takes it up the _bum_ ,” Annie says smirking into a conspiratorial whisper. She manages to make ‘bum’ sound like the filthiest word in the English language.

Ritchie and Anne-Marie both look at Gary for some kind of confirmation, or answer, of god knows what. Chas puts his head in his hands and groans.

“Hate to break it to you,” Gary informs her, laughing and a little wide-eyed. “Gay sex? Does not work the way you think it works.”

“Hmph,” Anne-Marie grabs three shots off the table. “Don’t destroy my fantasies, Gazzie. I’m like I’m a fucking _nun_ these days, they’re all I’ve got left!”

She spins on her heel, flicking her hair and hips in time with the music, Aerosmith this time. Chas kind of admires the ease with which she swaggers off to deliver shots to John and his latest conquest. If the rest of them see it then Chas knows he wasn’t imagining things at least.

“You okay with…” Chas asks Gary, realising at the last moment how awkward this might be. He tilts his head toward Annie, John and Dean at the pool table.

Gary looks at him for a long moment, then he smiles, soft and half unsure. “Yeah, ‘course.”

Chas isn’t sure he believes him. But what can he do about it really. Gary’s a big boy, he’s got to make his own mistakes. And if the pin-prick size of his pupils and slightly glazed attitude is anything to go by he’s already made a few tonight - what’s one more. It's not like being hopelessly in love with John is going to kill him.

Anne-Marie leans over the railing to deliver the shots to John and Dean. Chas realizes she’s singing along to the song as she does so.

“Is this your only chance; Or some hypnotic trance,” she coos down at John as she hands over the booze. “Let's get you on a, _tighter_ leee-ash.”

Chas can’t see her face but he can see the way John is laughing and the ki- Dean, is watching just a little awestruck, so Chas can imagine. Something about the accent and the way she moves her lips around each word, the power that so obviously crackles under her skin. Same as John, but different, cleaner maybe? It really is mesmerising.

“You think the missus ‘ll let you come back to Newcastle with us?” Gary is asking. Chas returns his attention to their little table.

“I don’t know, man. I’ve got a lot of work to do. We want to start a family real soon, so…”

Gary and Ritchie both nod.

“It’s gonna be a right laugh,” Gary says. “Getting the whole band back together.”

“Don’t know what’s got into old Logue’s head though,” Ritche says. “Must be that whole married with kids thing. Making him nostalgic.”

“It’ll do that, so I hear,” Gary grins back. “Won’t be the same without Chas though.” He pats Chas on the back when he says that then awkwardly withdraws his arm.

“Yeah,” Ritche adds, “we’ll have to carry our own gear for a start. It’s gonna suck!”

They all laugh. God, being here with them like this actually does make him want to go back to the UK for the gig. The Casanova Club Retrospective - seems like a pretentious name for anything that involves this lot. He can’t imagine why anyone would want to remember Mucous Membrane other than them (even they don’t half the time), but apparently there’s a whole new generation of punks with bad taste. Who knew. He wonders for a moment if John can even get into those tight leather pants anymore and then wishes he hadn’t.

The song changes and Anne-Marie dances back up to their table. ‘ _Carry on Wayward Son_ ’ Chas rolls his eyes. She tugs at his arms but he shakes his head. He’s too big to dance like this. He does spin his chair so he’s facing the bare floor space between their table and the railing. He’ll watch them dance but he won’t participate.

“Carry on my wayward soooon,” she sings at him but lets him go. “There’ll be peace when you are done!” The sad expression she gives him makes Chas laugh again so hard he thinks he might just fall out of the chair - maybe that’s her plot. Get him to fall over so he has to stand there and let her dance at him.

She gives up on him pretty quick though, knows him well enough not to push. She grabs John’s coat from where he left it on the rail and throws it on instead.

“Oi,” John calls out from below her. “Not on, wench!”

She just shrugs and pouts, ties the waist tight. It does look a lot better on her than it does on John. Chas’ll admit it.

“There,” she says, “now Gaz can pretend I’m Johnny and dance with me.”

It’s an old wound. But it’s still mean. Chas looks at her so she knows he disapproves, but she ignores him and grabs Gary by the wrist and pulls him up. She shoves another shot into his hands and sinks one herself.

“Lay your weary head to rest,” she sings at Gary this time. “Don't you cry no mo’ooore!”

When Gary joins her, giggling, Chas knows the evening is going nowhere but downhill from here. Knows his hangover is going to be murder. And knows it’s probably worth it. They grind up close, singing along and slightly off key. Chas and Ritchie both laugh at them. They’ve got John’s attention too. Shrewd and amused but something else a little darker too. Never could take what he dishes out.

Anne-Marie pulls Ritchie up too but he pulls back as soon as she lets him go. Annie lets him steal back to Chas’ side and focuses on getting Gary to make a fool of himself until Chas and Ritchie are both gasping for air. He’d forgotten how much fun this can be. Just letting go like this. It’s even better when they’re not strung up or strung out after some fight.

As if she can _taste_ it when Chas gives in to the imminent debauchery, Chantinelle swans on over to them at that exact moment. She looks like exactly what she is, sex come to life. Long crimson hair, bright blue almost lilac eyes, the sort of figure that many a hollywood starlet has sold their soul for. Chas swallows. He hates the effect she has on him, even though he knows it is like that for everyone. He hasn’t got magic the way the rest of them do. It’s never a fair fight but they’ll tease him for it mercilessly anyway.

“My, my,” the seductress says when she’s near enough for human ears. “I must say I approve.”

“Ellie,” Chas says with a nod. “You know Ritchie?”

This is her bar, and it’s probably why John dragged them here - John loves the ‘I own your continued protection from Hell discount’. But that means they have to tread carefully, be polite even though she’s a demon.

“We met just before,” Ellie says in that sweet susurrus that only a succubus can achieve. “It’s still a pleasure.”

Ritchie goes a bit pale and nods.

“Now, I hear you’re off the market Chas?” She looks him over and he’s never felt more like a lump of meat in his life - and his best friend is John Constantine so that’s impressive.

“That’s right,” Chas agrees. “Renee’s… she’s not like this lot.” He’s not sure if that’s a warning or an admission. He’s not sure he should offer anything. He’s had this conversation so many times it’s almost instinct to tell people about Renee and why he loves her, why she’s the one. So few people understand that it’s about how… clean she is. How real, and strong, and normal, and everything Chas has never had. The only people who do understand are the ones he maybe shouldn’t tell. Like Ellie.

Ellie reads it in him anyway. She loved an angel once. Maybe she can see that same longing for one’s opposite in Chas, because she smiles and it isn’t a seduction. It’s real and _nice_ , and it feels like permission. She bends in and gives him a very soft kiss on the cheek. His blood runs warm, a blossom of heat spreading forth from the contact, but nothing else.

The song shifts to something slower, one of those rock ballads that Anne-Marie always liked.

“Ellie!” Anne-Marie greets the demoness with more enthusiasm in her voice than her eyes. “Shot?”

“Not really my poison, kiddo.”

Annie grins at that and holds out her arm, still has the other around Gary’s shoulders. Ellie raises a single perfect brow but takes the offered hand. She lets Anne-Marie spin her in close and lean up, press their lips together and kiss her, lustful and languid. Sorceress and sinner kissing, a sex demon and a sexy demonologist. It’s probably one of the more erotic things a man like Chas will ever see and it makes him uncomfortable so many ways he’s not sure which to focus on. He’s pretty sure this doesn’t technically come under Renee’s no strippers, sex shows, or prostitutes warning - but it’s close enough that he looks away. That’s why he sees that John had stopped paying attention. He’s got the kid backed up against the pool table, hand on his neck and kissing him like salvation.

Both pairs kiss through most of the song. ‘Making love out of nothing at all’ - Chas likes Annie’s eye for ambiance anyway.

“Better?” Anne-Marie gasps, breaking away. She doesn’t look behind her. Doesn’t look at John, no indication that this is part of that game Chas has never known the rules for. Maybe it’s a coincidence. _No coincidences in magic, Chas,_ he hears John’s voice echo in his memory.

“Much,” Ellie says with a demon’s smile. “You are always such a giving guest, Anne-Marie. And Constantine seems entertained?”

Anne-Marie glances back over her shoulder and smiles. It isn’t a jealous smile, Chas notices. It’s sweet and indulgent. He doesn’t think he’ll ever fully understand those two. She shrugs, and dances back to the table for another shot glass. Forces one on Chas too. Gary follows her over and grabs another drink too, for want of anything else to do.

“We’re celebrating,” Anne-Marie says, meaning and voice layered and utterly beyond Chas, much as the negotiation itself. Because something is being bargained or debated or something but Chas can’t quite catch it. Anne-Marie takes John’s coat off and drops it over the back of one of the chairs. It looks casual but there’s something in the gesture. Some meaning hidden in the draperies.

“My kind of celebration,” Ellie flirts back and smiles broad enough to show her sharp teeth. “If you’ll excuse me, I have other guests. I’m sure you’ll have a very enjoyable and memorable evening.” That's a dangerous promise from something like Ellie and it sends a hot chill up Chas's spine.

Ellie leans in and places one of those subtle kisses on Annie’s cheek. The look she gives with it is far more heated than the one Chas got. It’s a promise and a bargain struck. Annie looks pretty pleased with her end of it though. Their eyes lock and their smiles mirror each other for a long hot moment.

Ritchie coughs and Chas needs to remind himself how to breathe before he can drink a shot. Gary is the only one unaffected and even he averts his eyes.

Anne-Marie laughs and downs her drink while she watches Chantinelle meander away. The moment the succubus is out of sight she’s back to leaning half way over the railing.

“You know Johnny cheats, right, twink?” Anne-Marie calls out. She’s had enough of them being anti-social it seems.

John and Dean look up at them. The hunter is flushed, and glaring, affected by both John and by the succubus’ magic. The kid frowns. Anne-Marie laughs again, soft and clear.

“Whose turn is it?” she asks them.

“Mine,” Dean says, voice more confident than he looks with John still half pinning him.

“You win then,” Anne-Marie says back. Then she flicks her wrist dramatically out toward the pool table. All the balls left on the table spill into the pockets in order, black ball going in last.

Dean looks surprised but John just laughs.

“She’s right, I do cheat, mate.” John teases. “I’m just a little more subtle ‘bout it.”

John kisses the kid again, soft and quick, and Chas can tell Dean doesn’t like the audience. John pretends not to notice so he can keep pushing his luck.

“Any road,” John says, pulling away to look at Dean intently. “You won, so I think that means you owe me.” John winks at him and Dean swallows hard. It all seems oddly private.

Chas finds that the other three must have agreed on that because they’re talking to each other, planning their trip back to Newcastle and giggling like the kids he used to know. He wonders again if they’ll be able to swing it - it’ll be pretty soon after the honeymoon but Renee has always wanted to go to the UK. Probably not to a Newcastle punk gig though.

John must realize he’s not the centre of attention anymore because he drags Dean back up to their table and forces another shot on him, offers one to Chas too and makes them all drink. It’s nice. It really is.

When the first few bars of ‘ _Can’t Fight This Feeling_ ’ start Chas, Ritchie, and Gary all groan in unison. Anne-Marie just giggles gleefully, still high from kissing a succubus and drunk on top of it.

Ritchie rolls his eyes and hands out the rest of the shots, and they all raise glasses at the end of the first verse, clink and drink in time. Dean looks confused and John looks even more gleefully demonic than Ellie. They’re actually all so amused that Chas thinks they’ll just giggle through enough of the song that they’ll miss their cues. He’s wrong.

It’s actually Anne-Marie that starts it and should be blamed though. Not just because she queued the track. But because she leans in over John’s shoulder and starts singing to him.

“And even as I wander; I'm keeping you in sight,” She starts off low, but raises her voice as she reaches the next line. “You're a candle in the window… On a cold, dark winter's night!”

Gary joins in and they almost manage to harmonise on the next line: “And I'm getting closer, than I, ever thought I mi’ight!”

John laughs and spins so he’s singing to both of them, “Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore; I've forgotten what I started fighting foooor!”

They’re no longer quite in time with the music. Dropping into their old punky cover version without even thinking. Ritchie picks up the drum beat on the table, even though he played bass. Gary and Anne-Marie get one on either side of Chas, singing to him full force now. The silly thing is Anne-Marie and Gary can both sing, and John could if he tried but he doesn’t. And then they all follow his lead in this as in so many other questionable decisions so that they’re all equally off key.

“And if I have to crawl upon the flooooor; Come crashing through your doooor… Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymooooore!” They’re all totally wrapped up in the song, their old familiar magic coming out to play, and a new touch of nostalgia laced mania. It’s kind of beautiful. He can see why something like Ellie would be happy to have them here even if they are rowdy and a genuine threat to half the clientele. The sexual tension and the thrumming magic between them all must be like french caviar for Chantinelle.

Chas laughs, all four of them fling their heads through the guitar solo like they really are on stage. Dean is staring at all of them like they’re insane and Chas can’t blame him at all. They kind of are. Seeing John like this must be shattering so many illusions. That just makes Chas laugh even harder. Which in turn encourages the whole quartet of bygone punks to even greater heights.

“And even as I wander I'm keeping you in sight,” they’re shouting more than singing now. “You're a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter's night! And I'm getting clooooser than I ever thought I miii’iight”

John grabs Dean by the waist on the last verse, pulls him in close and even Chas sees the kid’s eyes go wide and dark. Totally under John’s spell, and Chas tries to spare a moment of pity for him. But Annie is clutching Gary’s hand to her chest and singing to Ritchie with the most exaggerated expression, so all he can do is fall into helpless giggling.

“And if I have to _crawl_ upon the flooooor,” John throws his emphasis wrong and kicks the whole line into lustful tease. Kicks himself forward too. “Come crashing through your doooor… Baby, I can't fight this feeeeeelin’ anymooooore!”

John kisses Dean hard and headless at the end of the song. Dean laughs into it, caught up by their exuberance and their magic just like Chas always was. It’s the most relaxed Chas has seen the kid since he and John turned up.

Only problem is, that’s where John would normally have been mauling poor Gary if they were on stage. Yet when Chas glances over, Anne-Marie and Gary have a cringing Ritchie pinned between them. Each planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek which devolves into both of them licking him as he squirms and cries uncle. Chas laughs. Maybe that’s okay then. Maybe they’re all growing up and getting over John Constantine. That’d be nice. If they could just have this, like this, without the mess. That’d be really nice.

Chas takes a sip of his beer and feels hopeful. Really genuinely hopeful. Maybe he really can have both these worlds. Maybe they all can. Maybe even John can escape the curse of John Constantine?

* * *

Eventually they do go back to Newcastle and it’ll never be quite the same after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This SPN clip is relevant: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CF_ODNkAQHg>

**Author's Note:**

> I has a tumblr - <http://kittyaugust.tumblr.com/>
> 
> And, as always, please let me know what you think, what you want next, etc. Anything at all really. Comments are love.


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